


Burn the Ashes

by QueenSabriel



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/F, beasme, plot with some porn, post night at the opera scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenSabriel/pseuds/QueenSabriel
Summary: Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even if it breaks your little heart





	Burn the Ashes

Beatrice collected secrets the way other people collected coins, or stamps, or ex-lovers.  Sometimes they were things she learned, or moments she stole, or moments she made, weaving herself into other people with threads as delicate and sure as a spiderweb or the veins of a dragonfly's wings. Make your friendships as beautiful as silk but as strong as steel. Know what makes the people around you tick and you can ensure they will need you, always. Everyone has a secret, everyone has needs. Get your fingers into one, you often have the other. Every person can be useful. Make lots of friends, but make sure none of them know you as well as you know them.

You are beautiful, Beatrice, her mother had always told her, make sure people see that first. Make sure they are distracted by your beauty so they might not notice your cleverness. That should be your secret.

It is never enough to just be beautiful or to just be clever. In this world we must always be both. Surround yourself with people just as beautiful and just as clever, but make sure you always stay a step ahead of them. Like a ballet dancer, each move must always be calculated, must always be perfectly controlled.

And that was how she lived her life, one crafted moment to the next, watching it unfurl with perfect precision with each friendship, with each careful encounter. Some people would find that sort of life exhausting. Beatrice found it as exhilarating as when she looked out to see a theater full of people on their feet for her.

Every movement perfectly calculated, perfectly controlled. Perfectly anticipated.

So why hadn't she expected this?

"At least now I know," Esme said. Tiny, almost microscopic white gems were caught in her long, feathery dark lashes like raindrops and they glittered anytime she moved her head.

Beatrice, standing with her back against the closed dressing room door, managed a slow, familiar smile. "How did I do?" she asked.

"You were perfect, darling, as always," Esme murmured. For a moment her lip curled and she glanced away like she couldn't stand the sight of Beatrice just then. The tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, darting across her lower lip before she swung her attention back. "Then again, you've always been a superb actress."

"Oh, Esme," Beatrice said. "It wasn't all acting. You should know that."

Esme let out a single, humorless laugh. "Should I? See here's the thing, Queen Honey Bea—"

"Don't call me that," Beatrice said, her tone neutral but her insides searing at the sound of the old nickname.

"Why?" Esme said, and Beatrice knew she'd made a mistake. "It's really fitting for you. Just like a queen bee you use everyone around you to get things done, to bring you what you need. To love you. And what do you give in return?"

Beatrice pursed her lips. "What do you want, Esme? The sugar bowl is far away from here."

"I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that I really am _that_ disposable to you!" Esme said, her voice rising a few decibels as she jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at Beatrice.  

"Disposea— _you_ threw the first dart!"

"At the bloody wall!" Esme snapped. "I threw it _at the wall_! I wasn't trying to hit _you_! But you, on the other hand, apparently were finished with me, is that it? That's what you do? When you're done using people you throw them away. I mean you already made it blatantly clear you stopped trusting me."

And that was it. If Beatrice could have presented Esme with any proof that it _hadn't_ all been acting, it would be this moment, this exact moment that her control slipped and she let out a frustrated, exhausted sigh because right now, with everything happening too fast and too soon, she had been feeling frustrated and exhausted for weeks. Her control slipped, and it was because of Esme. No, it had not always been an act, but Esme would never believe her. Not now. "Of course I don't trust you! All you care about now is being pretty and fashionable and important, and you would have let innocent people die because you couldn't stand to be anywhere but the center of things!"

"Listen," Esme said, wrinkling her nose. "Just because I had a different idea than you of how to keep the sugar bowl safe didn't mean mine was wrong. You think I'm shallow and self-centered? I think you're pretentious. See? I can throw around big words too."

"Safe?" Beatrice said, raising her eyebrows. "You really thought you could keep it safe?"

Esme smiled, batting her long, glittering eyelashes as she did. "What? You didn't really think I only wanted to keep my tea set together, did you?"

No, Beatrice hadn't thought that. She knew Esme was smarter than she let on. Even with rich parents you didn't get where Esme was without having wits on top of good looks. Takes one to know one.

_Make sure they are distracted by your beauty_ … Is that what had happened?

Esme crossed the room in a few long, slow strides until she was standing directly in front of Beatrice. "At a loss for words, Queen Bea? I'm surprised."

"This isn't how I wanted things to go," Beatrice said. She glanced down, taking in Esme's outfit: tailored suit coat that fit her like a glove, white button down with an Edwardian collar, tutu skirt made from layers of iridescent, clear plastic interspersed with neon tulle. It was unfair how good Esme could look in even the most ridiculously couture styles.

"Oh, boo-hoo," Esme said, and Beatrice could practically feel her closing off and shutting down, retreating behind her knife-sharp exterior. "You should have thought of that before you stole from me and then tried to kill me."

Beatrice met her gaze and tried to regain control of the situation. What did Esme want, really? What did _she_ want, really?

For this to not be how things ended.

Did she feel bad? Of course she did.

Did she regret what she did? No. She couldn't. Sometimes for the greater good you had to hurt people you cared about. People you—

Esme reached out and put her hand on Beatrice's cheek, brushing her thumb over her lower lip. "My little honey Bea," she said in a soft sing-song tone. "Turns out you've got a stinger and I'm deathly allergic."

"Stop it," Beatrice said.

"Why?" Esme said. "Are you having doubts about whether you're playing for the right team?" She slid her hand around to the back of Beatrice's head then, and Beatrice reached up as well, burying her fingers in the soft cascade of Esme's blonde curls so they were mirroring each other, face to face.

"Ha ha," Beatrice said.

Suddenly Esme grabbed both of her wrists, pushing her back against the door with a slight thud. Tilting her head back so she was looking at Beatrice from beneath those excessive lashes she said lowly, "Do you _really_ want me to stop?"

Beatrice responded with a feral smile that was all teeth, then, pushing herself forward as much as she could with her wrists still pinned, a furious, bruising kiss that must have taken Esme by surprise because she let go, which meant that Beatrice could grab her, hands around her incredibly tiny waist, leaning into the kiss like she wanted to drown in it.

No, she didn't really want her to stop.

Anger and misery and _just this one last time, darling_.

They landed on the chaise in the corner, Beatrice already twisting her hips, but there was a brief moment, one kiss that was deeper than the others, gentler, slower. Beatrice parted her lips, willingly and greedily, fumbling with Esme's shirt, (desperately), and, getting nearly all the buttons undone, cupped her breast, felt more than heard the sigh Esme let out.

Beatrice sat back, straddling her lap, and for just a few breathless seconds they looked at each other.

"I did love you," Beatrice whispered. It was not a lie. The problem was she loved like a star going supernova; bright and hot and then gone, and in its wake a naked singularity that drew everything in to a crushing end.

Esme. Lemony. Would it happen to Bertrand too?

"Just because it's over doesn't make it meaningless," she added.

"Fuck you," Esme said, but her voice shook, and for a moment her expression was so raw the only time Beatrice could remember seeing anything like it was a quiet morning years ago when she had woken up and Esme was next to her, still asleep.

Leaning down again, Beatrice cradled the back of Esme's head in both hands, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the perfect line of her neck, whispering against her skin, "One of the unfortunate truths of life is that it's far easier to damage the people who care about you than people who don't. It's far easier to hurt the ones you love than the ones you hate."

She kissed lower, first the hollow at the base of Esme's throat then the soft skin of her breast.

"I hate you," Esme gasped, arching beneath Beatrice, hands clutching at her shoulders, head falling back.

And here they were again, where they always seemed to end up, fingers deep inside each other, moving together, gasping. Esme bit when she was upset but Beatrice didn't, couldn't care, the sudden pain putting an edge to all other feelings just then; the slide of Esme's skin beneath hers, the familiar smell of her body, the taste of her.

( _Taste_. There was that one night when they went to see the ballet and had the box to themselves, and she had gone down on Esme during the second act of _Giselle_ , the taste of her still lingering on her lips when they kissed afterwards and Esme had whispered, "Fuck me I love the theater." When was the last time she'd laughed like that? Either of them?)

Suddenly Esme pushed Beatrice back, but it was only to flip their position so she was on top, one hand clutching at the back of the couch, her other slipping back into Beatrice again. Her expression, before she buried her face in the side of Beatrice's neck, was frustration, and anger, and pain, and she did nothing to hide that sentiment as she pushed into her.

"I hate you," Esme whispered again, shuddering when Beatrice crooked her fingers, and it definitely sounded as though Esme were saying it to herself, like a reminder.

Sometimes hatred felt so much easier than love.

What have I done?

"Esme…" _I'm sorry_.

"Esme-!" _I'm not sorry._

"Esm…"

A soft sigh against her cheek, and an even softer whisper, " _Honey Bea_."

And then it was just the two of them and the stillness and the silence, lying there, and Beatrice didn't even realize at first that she'd wrapped her arms tightly around Esme's shoulders. When Esme tried to sit up at first she wouldn't let her, and then finally Esme pushed her down, roughly, and sat up, the corners of her flushed and swollen lips turned down in a frown of distaste.  She got to her feet, not looking at Beatrice as she began the process of straightening her clothes, re-buttoning her shirt and jacket and fixing her hair.

Beatrice sat up slowly. She pulled her panties back on and smoothed down her skirt, then sat with her hands in her lap, trying not to look like she was still trying to catch her breath, like her body was still thrumming.

"Esme, it's not too—"

"You know why else you're like a honey bee?" Esme said, redoing the button of her jacket and looking up finally. "You know what happens to them after they sting someone, right?"

Beatrice closed her eyes.

"If I felt pity," Esme continued, "Which I don't, it would be for your children, Bea. You're not going to be around to pay for what you've done, so I guess that will fall to them."

Beatrice's eyes flew open and she sprang to her feet. That was a mistake.

Esme's lips curled back in a venomous smile. "Kit said some volunteers preferred starting fires to putting them out. She must have been talking about you."

"Esme," Beatrice said, stepping forward and reaching for her arm.

"Oh, no, no." Esme stepped back, holding her arm out of Beatrice's reach. "Pity is _out_ , Bea. You hurt me. Badly. And your mistake was showing me how to hurt you back. Let everyone else think this is about something as noble as the sugar bowl. We'll know the truth, won't we?" She reached out and cupped Beatrice's chin in her fingers. "You did teach me one important lesson, darling. There really is no such thing as a noble person. So you know what I say? Let the motherfuckers burn."

 


End file.
